This blog is not affiliated in any way with Cindy Crawford. Even if she is its de facto inspiration. It's also not affiliated in any way with Hayden Panettiere, who's earned joint top billing on this blog because she makes me happy. And that ain't easy.

Saturday, March 12, 2005

The Longest Weekend (up to a point)

If MuffinMan can post entire stories, I can at least post part of one... this was based on requests on ye olde boards. The rest of the first part is coming guess where.

The music and the guests were loud, just the way Lindsay Lohan liked it. And her date was trying to look down the top of her shirt as she danced, which was definitely the way she liked it. Lindsay was tempted to jiggle herself forward a bit – nah, it would look as if she wanted him to take a look. The only thing she wasn’t looking forward to was the night’s token slow record… it had been a while since she’d had a slow dance and some one hadn’t tried to have a feel.

A tap on her shoulder; the teenager rolled her eyes. Probably some kid wanting an autograph or something… “Hang on!” the redhead shouted at her date over the music, and swivelled round to meet the spotty lovestruck kid.

Who wasn’t spotty. Or lovestruck. Or a kid. It was one of the bouncers; Lindsay craned her head to look right in his face, preparing to tell him that she hadn’t done anything this time…

“Someone outside wants to see you, Miss L.”

”Whoever it is can wait…”

”It’s someone from the label.”

”I’ll be right there!” Lindsay said eagerly, knowing you never messed with them when you were coming up. “Can you hold on for a few minutes, Toby?” she added to her date. “I’ll be right back.” And part hoping that Toby and some of the other clubgoers were watching her wiggle, the girl got off the dancefloor and headed out into the cool night.

And never came back.

* * * * * * * * * *

Hilary Duff's cute face grimaced as she looked in the rearview mirror. It couldn't be... yep, there was a police car behind her, wanting her to pull over. "But...?" she groaned to herself, bringing her new car over to the side of the road. Oh man, this couldn't be happening; she'd only just bought this car and she had to go and meet this friend of hers who hated waiting. And it wasn't even like she was speeding or drunk or anything - Hilary summoned up all her perkiness and hoped that it would be enough to escape a ticket or whatever, as she watched the officer approach.

"Hi, officer!" the blonde smiled. "Is there a problem?"

"Probably not, ma'am," the officer replied. "There's a small problem with your tail lights... one of them's gone out."

"Gone out?" Hilary pouted. "But I just got this car!"

"That's what you get when you buy American," the officer joked. "Better come and have a look..."

Sighing, Hilary got out of the car. Both tail lights were still working perfectly when the abandoned car was found an hour later.

* * * * * * * * * *

It was a quiet, moonlit night by the river. No one around; just the way he liked it. He had the water and the fish all to himself; it was amazing what he had caught during his night fishing. No telling what he'd catch tonight... he let out his line, failing to hear the little plop as the baited hook entered the water.

Jewel sat back as the movie from DreamWorks began; tomorrow night she'd be on stage for her fans, but tonight it was all her own time. Settling down in front of the huge screen, the buxom blonde set aside any thoughts of music and focused on the action that was about to begin; the music of the movie's opening credits failed to drown out the beeping of her cellphone.

"I thought I told them..." she grumbled. "Hello?... I told you I'm off tonight... What? He wants to see me?... He's only in town tonight? Look, put him on... Yes? Oh, wow... Okay, okay, I'll be there... only an hour though, okay? Thanks... I can't wait!" Jewel stopped the movie and raced for the door; she liked to rest, but she wasn't the type to turn down a request from Denzel Washington.

Heading downstairs, she rang up her people to let them know she'd changed her plans; the night in was out, and they weren't to send anyone after her; she'd be back in an hour or two.

They didn't. And she wasn't.

* * * * * * * * * *

In spite of her tender years, Lindsay wasn’t unfamiliar with the whole waking-up-with-a-headache-from-the-night-before-in-unfamiliar-surroundings thing. As her bleary eyes cracked open, the first thing she thought was “Ooooohhhhh…. Whahappenn….” Her head was pounding; she must have been really knocking them back last night. But at least she wasn’t awakening to find her mouth encrusted with vomit this time.

Lindsay gingerly moved her head to get a look at where she’d woken up now; not a sign of her date anywhere. If he’d taken her back to his place the guy was more of a gentleman than she’d figured – he’d put her to bed and not tried to join her. (Not that she’d have complained; it wouldn’t have been the first time.) He’d even put her in clean pyjamas… “Hope you enjoyed the show,” the redhead said to herself, as she realised that she’d been naked underneath her clothes. Still trying to wake herself up, she took in the bedroom she was in – damn, this was a big one. Very clean. And through the big glass windows she had a great view of the countryside; shame she was a city girl at heart…

The countryside? “Whadafuck?” Lindsay mumbled as she looked at the green fields and trees outside. She knew that she hadn’t been anywhere near some kind of pastoral idyll when she headed to the club… what kind of a meeting had she had with that record label guy? The sexy teen climbed out of her bed and started to pad out of the bedroom – she needed answers. If that guy from the record company had done this, there were going to be lawyers flying around the place real soon.

Whoever lived here had to be a loaded egotist, she thought as she ventured out into the hallway. Loaded because the house was large and impressively furnished; an egotist because of all the damn mirrors on the walls… in fact, some of the walls WERE mirrors. Lindsay couldn’t resist looking at herself in said mirror-walls as she negotiated her way towards the staircase; she grinned and tossed her tousled mane back, playing up to her own reflection. “I’d like to thank everyone who helped me win my fourth Oscar tonight; thanks to Hilary Duff for pulling out after that business with the cast of ‘One Tree Hill’ and a Shetland pony…”

“You wish.”

Lindsay’s eyes picked out Hilary Duff in the mirror, standing behind her – she too had wandered out of her bedroom, a few doors down from her own. “Duff? What are you doing here?”

”I was about to ask you the same question,” the blonde girl said, repressing a giggle even now. “Nice jammies.”

It dawned on Lindsay that she was wearing pyjamas with fluffy little bears on them. So was Hilary, but she actually seemed to like them. “And they say I don’t have any shame…” she groaned. “Want to go and find the owner of this place?”

“I just want to call my mom, let her know I’m okay.”

”You got curfew or something?”

”She worries about me, okay?”

”Mama’s girl,” Lindsay muttered as they went downstairs.

”Slut,” Hilary parried as the strains of music got louder.

As the two girls went downstairs, the full horror of the situation hit them... they were inside a house with someone who liked listening to Blue. Blue, the lame-ass boy band who wanted to be the Backstreet Boys when they were, to coin a phrase, so yesterday. Blue, who Lindsay had been subjected to while promoting "Mean Girls" in Europe and had actually been driven to drink on hearing the inanities that came from their mouths (and this was BEFORE their singing). Blue, who had been responsible for Hilary's one moment of rock'n'roll rage when she'd heard one of their songs in London and actually smashed the radio. Blue, who were causing Jewel, the first person they saw on arriving downstairs, to pull more faces than Portia di Rossi. She was sitting on the floor, looking at her wits' end.

"PLEASE HELP ME!!!" the buxom blonde begged on seeing the others. "I've been trying to find out where this crap's coming from..."

"Jewel?" Hilary asked, her mind taken away from Lee, Duncan and Co. for a moment. "What are you doing here?"

"Going out of my damn mind is what I'm doing here... first I wake up to find I'm in this house and there's a note telling me to come downstairs and wait for the owner, then as soon as I enter these morons start up and it's been going non-stop for an HOUR!!!" Jewel sounded as if she was about to weep. Lindsay and Hilary couldn't blame her.

Looking around to see if there was something there that Jewel had missed, Lindsay noticed that there was a table all laid out for breakfast; four settings, so whoever was doing this had to show up soon. Maybe he could explain why they were all together and being forced to listen to shitty English boybands... and on the table was a bottle. The redhead made a beeline for it - she could use something strong around now.

"Not so fast, Cady!"

"Hey, my name's Lindsay!"

"I know, I was just playing with you," said the man who stood in the doorway, smiling at the three women. "Before we go any further..." he clapped three times and the boys in Blue were cut off. Not in the way Hilary would have preferred (specifically in the groin area), but at least the music had stopped.

The ladies' relief flowed across their faces as the man stepped forward. "My name is Stuart Holmes, and I've been your host for the past two days... take a seat, and all will be clear."

Stuart was not in fact an ugly bastard, with his jet-black hair, his clean-shaven face and slim fit body, but the women stared at him as if he was Caliban's uglier brother; with a mixture of shock and disgust. "Two days...?" Jewel repeated. "Are you serious?"

"Do you have big breasts?" Stuart asked.

"Well, two of us do," Lindsay cracked, giving Hilary a sneering look.

"Size ain't everything," Hilary pointed out, but she gazed nervously down at her bosom.

"Lola, please stop reducing Isabella's ego - that's my job," Stuart tut-tutted. "Now if you'll wait here, I'll bring out the breakfast and all your questions will be answered. In the meantime, you've got the run of the house... you can even try and call your friends and family to tell them where you are." Stuart indicated a phone on the wall. "You're on my ranch. About five miles from the city limits; I call it the Scarlet Ranch."

"As in Johansson?" Hilary asked, bounding up and going to the phone.

"As in Captain. He was always my favourite Gerry Anderson character."

"Your what now?" the three asked as one.

"Sometimes I wonder why I came back here from the UK," Stuart muttered. "Every time I try and explain this..." Despairing over Americans' continued ignorance of the great man, he withdrew to the kitchen as Hilary picked up the phone, eager to tell them she was okay. Her sweet features soon furrowed in frustration - she'd gotten a dial tone all right, but when she called the number all she got was static. And she wasn't up in the attic tuned to Channel Z either.

Sighing, she called her sister.

And her closest friend.

And her agent.

"Some of US want to use it as well, Lizzie McGuire!" Lindsay shouted.

"I can't get through to anyone!" Hilary yelled. "I'm just getting that fsssssssssssssssssssssssh sound all the time!"

"And you always will," Stuart added, materialising by Lindsay's side as if by magic. "All of the lines going out have been blocked. Breakfast is ready, by the way." And he swatted the redhead's round rump, to her clear disgust.

"You do that again and you lose an eye."

"I'm going to do it again, but I won't be losing an eye. Now sit and I'll tell you why."

Lindsay sat down next to Jewel, her butt still stinging. The food certainly looked good, but it was the little golden boxes and envelopes next to the plates that caught her attention; she couldn't believe that this guy was going to try and bribe them into staying...? Not a chance, she thought as Hilary took her place between her and Stuart. The minute we're through with this food I'm outta here. Even if I have to walk back to the city...

Jewel shovelled the food into her mouth; she may have been held against her will, but she was still hungry. Until she spluttered a mouthful of eggs onto the table – Hilary would usually have told her off for her manners, but she was choking on her own food as well. Stuart’s hands were under the table, one of them clutching Hilary’s right thigh, the other caressing Jewel’s left one, moving right under her dress.

“Get it off me, pervert!” Jewel snapped. Hilary, her mouth crammed full of sausages, just threw their host a look that would have made Donald Rumsfeld change the habits of a lifetime and apologise. Stuart, not being Rumsfeld, just smirked and removed the hands while Lindsay just felt glad she wasn’t sitting next to Mr. Hands. What was with this guy…?

”What is with you?” Hilary yelled. “I mean, thanks for taking care of us and everything but man… we’re out of here. Now.”

“I still owe you an explanation, and you still have to open the boxes,” Stuart replied. “Go on, humour me.”

Shaking her head, Hilary opened the palm-sized box, and shook it onto her hand. Out tumbled a little blue pill, for all the world looking like an M&M. Hilary stared at it for a second before dumping it on the table. “Is that it? A stupid little pill?”

”Not stupid at all,” Stuart said. “Ladies?”

Lindsay and Jewel cracked open their boxes, hoping that at the very least there was something a bit more expensive inside this glorified Crackerjack box. Lindsay fumed on seeing that she too had drawn a blue pill; Jewel’s palm greeted another pill. But this one was red.

“Does this mean I get tonight’s star prize?” the blonde singer asked Stuart.

He shook his head, adding “I get the prize; you have to do all the work. You get to tit-fuck Anna and Sam here.”

Until now, Stuart’s insistence on referring to Lindsay and Hilary by the names of characters they’d played in movies had been his most irritating trait; this announcement pushed that down to second place. They were so shocked that none of them could reply right away; this was the window for Stuart to add “And just before you storm out in righteous indignation, have a look inside the envelopes.”

The three beauties ripped open the envelopes, wondering if this time there’d be a real bribe to stay – like money? Not that they didn’t have plenty, but they could always use more. Hilary knew that whatever was in there, it wouldn’t be incriminating photos – she had never been one for nude sunbathing or sex in the open, or anything worse (she couldn’t speak for the other two – you could never trust the quiet ones like Jewel, and as for Carrottop Lohan… well!) She pulled out several pictures, studied them – and her eyes bugged as she flicked through each one of the crystal-clear colour glossies.

The pictures had been taken from overhead. She was in them, she was surrounded by men, and she was topless; but she wasn’t having sex. She wasn’t even moving. She was inside a room that looked disturbingly like a surgical theatre, and the men were circling her, their instruments around the gaping hole in her chest. In the later pictures, the cavity between her breasts was in glorious closeup, with what looked like a pacemaker being inserted into her chest…

“Oh my God,” Hilary moaned. Lindsay had gone pale, and Jewel was skimming through her own set of pictures again and again in disbelief. The Texan blonde fingered her chest again, and pulled down the top of her pyjama shirt to have a look. There it was – a small scar between her boobs. Stuart hadn’t been playing.“By the way, those aren’t pacemakers,” Stuart added, surveying his private harem. “They’re bombs.”

The James Horner Spot.

The Tell Them Who I Am Spot.

...is a 43-year-old guy who likes listening to film and TV music, whose days of eating entire packets of biscuits are gone thanks to the ol' diabetes, whose hair - thanks to genetics - now has a bald spot on top but who is fortunately 6'2" so it's hard to see, who enjoys the box (particularly American shows - and the often-made British claim that "we only see the best of US TV" is a fallacy as anyone who has cable will testify. I think it's Americans who only see the best of Br... I hate that term, so I refuse to sully this blog with it), who's gotten most of his friends through stories and the net, who loves writing about attractive female celebrities, who slaves at a direct mail company, and who isn't as sorry he grew up in Barbados between 1976 and 1993 as he used to be. Oh, and he doesn't seem any emotionally different from when he was 12. A man really is a child grown up, child is father of the man, and so on...